


Crazy George's Bridge

by anticipatewrites



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-06-24
Packaged: 2019-05-27 21:38:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15033857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anticipatewrites/pseuds/anticipatewrites
Summary: MOTW-like fic. There's been a fairly gruesome death in a little town in Tennessee. It's all wrapped up in both local legend and something much older and more sinister. The boy's humorous banter and brotherly love play a big part in solving the mystery. Cannon-compliant.





	Crazy George's Bridge

**Author's Note:**

> A/n: This was the first fic I ever wrote. Just sat down and banged it out on my phone for three days solid. It poured out of me and wanted to tell itself. Starting out, we ride along with a group of teenagers trying to raise a little Hell on Halloween night. Our boys come into the story about a thousand words in. There's a nice brotherly moment on a hilltop at the end in which I solve all of their issues with two lines of dialogue. Just talk to each other sometimes, guys! Anyway, I hope you enjoy! Oh, and you can find me over on Tumblr @anticipate1003. Feel free to drop me a line!

Crazy George’s Bridge  
“I'm so fucking bored, y'all. It's Halloween, we should be doing something epic.” Annie said. She was practically thrumming with pent up energy. Her curly blonde hair was bouncing as she shifted from foot to foot. They were all hanging out at the local coffee shop. Poet’s. As usual. The five best friends were almost always together and, just now, they were crowded around one of the tables near the window in the front of the shop, trying in vain to hear each other over the screeching racket of the local band hired to play on Halloween night.  
“It's Cookeville, Annie, what is it that you think we ought to be doing?” Tara asked, picking at her gray t-shirt. Nirvana, it declared across the chest. Tara wouldn't know Kurt Cobain if he rose up from the dead and bit her on the ass. She should really stop raiding her brother’s closet. “There's not a whole lot going on. I mean, clearly, we’re too old to trick or treat. There's not very much left to choose from unless we wanna go to one of the church thingys,"  
“No! I wanna do something scary. Like, really scary. Not just some dumb Halloween Thing for kids. “ Annie replied. She was going nuts sitting here listening to this shit music and downing way too much caffeine.  
Will took pity on her and made a suggestion, completely contrary to his usual self. “We could go up to Crazy George's Bridge.” He blushed, knowing his group of friends would take notice of his uncharacteristic proposal.  
“Yeah, there's some truly fucked up shit that happens up there on Buck Mountain," Zach took no notice of Will’s awkwardness. He was the daredevil of the group. Always trying to prove himself by doing crazy things and usually getting hurt in the process. “Especially on Halloween.”  
“Yall know that's a load of crap, right?” Asked Eric. “Crazy George's Bridge is just a make out spot at best. Not that I'm not up for a little making out…”  
“Gross, dude. Get your mind out of the gutter for once.” Tara said, as she scrunched up her face. Her short, brown hair fell into her eyes and she flicked it away disdainfully. “Not every girl wants to make out with you.”  
“Well, that's news to me,” he replied, winking at Annie. “Last I heard, I was in pretty high demand.”  
“Oh, fuck you, Eric.” Annie said. “The last time you had anything to do with a chick, it was me and you chickened out so hard I heard clucking.”  
Everyone dissolved into laughter at Eric’s expense. They all knew that he pretended to have much more experience than he actually did, despite his looking like a young Prince William.  
“I'm up for it” said Jason, joining the group. He didn't usually hang out with the five original Mouseketeers. Mostly he could be found with his overly religious girlfriend, but she and her family were holed up at the First Baptist Church down the road. No doubt praying for the poor sinners who liked to dress up like Batman and eat candy once a year.  
“Crazy George’s Bridge is always creepy. Even during the day. On Halloween night it's probably even better. I heard there's a coven of witches up there that sacrifice cats to Satan on All Hallows' Eve. Everybody in Algood keeps their cats in tonight, I've heard.” He was making spooky hand motions and wiggling his fingers.  
“Well, that's fucking awful.” Will stated. “Like the Witch’s Cemetery isn't bad enough.”  
“The Witch's Cemetery is just a legend, dude.” Zach accused. “Everybody knows that's just a bunch of weirdos that do bad things to animals to freak people out. My grandpa used to go up there and nap against the big tree on the hill every Sunday afternoon. Said it was the most peaceful place in the county. Crazy George was a real person, though, not just some story.”  
“Its settled, then!,” Annie exclaimed. “Let's go visit Crazy George, he's probably lonely tonight.”  
“He's been dead for, like, fifty years, hon, I'm pretty sure he's used to the whole lonely thing by now.” Tara, it seemed, was done messing with her brother's shirt and had resorted to peeling the label off of her coffee cup.  
“ Yeah, but that's what makes him more dangerous,” Zach ventured, darkly. “He probably wants some company.”

 

A short while later they were all piled into Zach’s brown Blazer, Zach and Will in the front and Annie and Tara squished between Jason and Eric in the back. The Blazer was heading up Buck Mountain Road in the dark. The one lane chip and tar road was not well maintained and it wound sharply through the dense woods, old trees closing in on both sides.  
“Don't go so fast, dude. There could be a tree down in the road or something. The only people that come up here anymore are meth-heads.” Will warned. “I'm kinda feeling like this isn't the best idea you've ever had, Annie.”  
“Screw you, Wills!” Annie said, as she smacked him on the back of the head. “We’re havin’ an adventure. There's only so many times we can watch Children of the Corn before it loses its thrill. This is the real deal! Besides, if I remember correctly, you're the one who suggested it.”  
“Wow. You are way more excited about this than you should be.” Jason accused. He shrugged his shoulders. “It's not even the original bridge anymore. It's just boring old concrete and graffiti now. There hasn't been a train on the tracks underneath since we were in diapers.”  
“Jesus, Jason, you are such a fucking buzz kill.” Tara reprimanded. Why was he here again? “It's not the bridge that’s haunted, anyways, it's the tracks.”  
“Yeah, yeah, we all know the story, Tara.” Eric rolled his eyes and reached under the seat, pulling out a brown paper bag. “The real excitement here is that I brought party favors.” He waggled his brows.  
Annie’s eyes went wide and she squealed, “You are officially the hero of the hour! Whadya bring me, new favorite person?”  
“Eric! Dude! What are you thinking? You do remember what happened the last time you fed lightweight back there your Dad’s liquor, right? And you could've fucking warned me that we were driving around with a goddamn open container in my car.” Zach admonished, knowing full well what happened when you mixed Annie and alcohol.  
“Chill, man, there hasn't been a cop on Buck Mountain since Crazy George was alive. And, besides, last time I screwed up and brought Everclear. That shit could get a Sasquatch drunk and start a bonfire at the same time. Anyway, it's your fault we took her to Chili’s. This time she will be nice and safe. And not in public..”  
“Oh my god,” Will groaned, putting his head in his hands, “This is so not gonna end well.”

 

Three shots in and the night was starting to look up, even though Crazy George had not yet made an appearance. The woods were dark and there was no light except for the headlights of Zach’s Blazer, shining up the hill, past the bridge. The old bridge was concrete, as Jason had said, and was certainly covered with a few generations worth of graffiti, done by wayward teenagers, no doubt looking for a thrill. Annie and Tara were peering over the dark side, down into the trench where the railroad tracks had been laid a hundred years before.  
“Do you see anything, Tara?” Annie asked, squinting her eyes in the dark.  
“Alota nothin’. You're ‘sposed to see his lantern coming around the corner up there around the bend.” She slurred, pointing.  
“Guys! Y'all stop havin your secret boy meeting on the tailgate and bring us a flashlight or somethin’.” Annie’s voice was way too loud in the quiet of the woods.  
Sighing, Jason stubbed out his cigarette on the bottom of his shoe, “We’re not having a secret boy meeting, Annie. Some of us just happen to not believe in dumb ghost stories like you.” He grabbed the flashlight out of the car. “And I'm taking the flashlight with me, cause I gotta take a piss.”  
“What a fucking gentleman.” The girls rolled their eyes and walked back over to Will, Eric and Zach, as Jason swayed off into the dark woods on the other side of the bridge, flashlight beam swinging back and forth with his steps.  
“Why did we bring him again?” Annie asked Will.  
“Because he was there?” He shrugged and kicked at the dirt with his hiking boots.  
“Ugh. He can be such a dick sometimes.”

 

The five friends were just about to take another shot of the nasty, cheap crap that Eric had stolen from his dad when Will went stiff and looked up in alarm.  
“Did y'all feel that?”  
“Feel what, loser? Last one to take his shot has to go down on the track!” Tara declared, kicking at Will’s boot with the toe of her All Stars.  
“No! Quit fucking around! I felt, like, a vibration or something.” He said in a serious tone. Annie's head shot up, “Hell, yeah! That's what we need! Some tunes! Good, good, good, good vibrations!” She started dancing around to her own song, utterly tone deaf, her alcohol consumption making her not care one bit.  
Eric grabbed her arm and she stopped short. “More like bad vibrations. I feel it too.”  
They all went quiet then, listening. The vibrations got steadily stronger and were soon accompanied by a low frequency rumble.  
“Is..is that a goddamn train?” Zach asked.  
Will turned to him, eyes wide in shock. “Can't be, man, there hasn't been a train through here in decades. There's trees as big around as my leg growing up through the tracks.”  
The rumbling got louder and then, around the curve of the hill, they saw a small light swinging gently side to side, the train noises still increasing in volume.  
“Holy shit!” Annie screamed. “It's Crazy George! We gotta get the hell out of here!”  
They all scrambled back into the car, not bothering to shut the back. Zach threw it in reverse and the half bald tires spun for a second before they caught traction in the dry autumn leaves on the side of the road. The old Blazer lurched forward when he shifted into drive and sped away from Crazy George's bridge, littering shot glasses and cheap booze in its wake.  
About half a mile down the country road Eric asked, quietly, “Where’s Jason?”

 

“Hey, man, I think I gotta case.” Sam was hunched over his laptop, staring at an article from The Herald Citizen in Cookeville, TN.  
“Really?! Dude, we just finished up the bullshit with that coven of witches last night!” Dean was laying on the motel bed with his arm flung over his eyes. And he was not in a good mood. The last witch had given him a run for his money. With nothing left to lose, she had thrown everything she had at him while Sam had done the spellwork to relieve her of her very powerful magic. Dean’s back wished that monsters would stop throwing him up against goddamn walls. Monster hunting was a real bitch sometimes. And he wasn't getting any younger.  
“Yeah,” Sam said, not remotely fazed by his brother’s lack of enthusiasm. “It looks like some teenager got himself killed on Halloween night. He and his friends were out drinking on some haunted bridge. The friends told the police that there was a, get this….ghost train.” He quirked his eyebrow at Dean, knowing full well that the words ‘ghost’ and ‘train’ were bound to get his attention.  
He was right. Dean sat up in the bed, swinging his denim clad legs over the side. “Ghost train?” He paused, sighing in defeat. “I gotta say, Sammy, we've seen some weird shit in our day, but never a ghost train.” Dean got up and walked into the small bathroom. Leaving the door open, he splashed some water on his face from the sink. Time to pull it back together. Again. “So where is this mythical train?”  
“Tennessee.” Sam answered.  
“Huh,” Dean grunted through the towel he was drying his face off with. “I don't think we've ever worked a case in Tennessee before. We’re Tennessee virgins!” He clapped Sam on the back as he was heading out the door.  
Sam sighed and shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Dean was so predictable.

 

The Impala rolled into town the day of the annual Fall Fun Fest. Pumpkins and multicolored corn stalks graced every storefront downtown. The police department had blocked off all of the streets and people were crowded everywhere. On one side of the square, in between a wall sized mural of Ronald Regan’s face (on which someone had painted a Hitler mustache) and The Lamp and Lighthouse, there was a huge stage set up. The banner that had been hung above it rippled gracefully in the breeze and declared that Three Dog Night would be headlining the event.  
“Dude! Three Dog Night is playin’ Hick-Fest?! What is this world coming to? No wonder parking was such a bitch.” Dean was shoving funnel cake in his mouth by the fist full, trying to simultaneously balance his fresh-squeezed-right-out-of-the-lemon-while-you-watch lemonade.  
Sam threw his head back in exasperation, hands in his pockets as he walked. “Dean, we have a case here. Could you please stop trying to give yourself diabetes for two seconds and focus?”  
“All work and no play, Sam. All work and no play.” He shook his head as he dumped his empty containers in the nearest trash can, still chewing. He wiped his powdered sugar covered hands on his red flannel shirt, “So where’s this coffee place again?”  
“It's supposed to be on the Northwest side of the square.”  
Dean cracked his neck and swallowed, “Ok, boyscout, get out your compass and lead the way.” 

 

Poet’s was on the corner of East Broad street and Jefferson avenue. The building itself was brick, with an all glass front. There were striped awnings above that, proudly showing off the Poet’s logo in elegant script, laid over top of a stylized coffee cup with a delicate wisp of steam rising from it. Out front on the sidewalk, under the oak trees lining the street, there were wrought iron tables and chairs next to a well tended flower bed, overflowing with chrysanthemums this time of year.  
Sam took in the pleasant scenery. It reminded him of his time as a college student at Stanford. He couldn't wait to get his hands on a real mocha. Not that crap that comes out of a machine at gas stations and still tastes like the powder that's used to make it. Dean, on the other hand, was less than impressed.  
“Dude, what is this fru-fru crap?” He was scowling at the menu on the wall. “Is this even in English? Do y'all just have coffee coffee? Ya, know, the dark brown stuff that wakes you up in the morning?”  
Sam gave the young blonde girl behind the counter an apologetic smile. “I'm sorry, I've been trying to domesticate him for years, just won't take. He’ll have a tall coffee of the day, black. And I'll take a short mocha.”  
They were dressed in their usual attire. Jacket, flannel shirt, jeans. They fit right in with the Cookeville crowd. Aside from the fact that Sam towered over everyone else with his looming 6 feet and 3 inches, they looked like they would be completely at home in the local Tractor Supply.  
Dean wandered off while Sam was waiting for their coffee, looking at the almost-good paintings on the walls. Courtesy of the local college students, a plaque read.  
Out of the corner of his eye, Sam noticed a group of kids sitting in a little alcove on what looked like a comfortable arrangement of fluffy mismatched chairs and couches. These must be the kids they came here to find. The two girls had red-rimmed eyes and the three boys seemed to be trying to comfort them. He heard the blonde girl, with outrageously curly hair, sob out, “It's all our fault! We just left him there!”  
Sam caught his brother’s attention and gestured with his head towards the group. Dean got the message and headed their way.  
“Hey guys. My name is Dean Smith and I'm a journalist from the publication, Paranormal Times.” He pulled out a notebook as Sam walked up beside him and handed him his boring coffee. “I know you've suffered a terrible loss, but I was wondering if my colleague and I could ask you a few questions regarding that night.”  
The girl with the short brown hair and, what looked to be a dancer’s build, glared up at him with fire in her dark eyes, obviously protective of her friend.  
“Don't you think that we have been through enough? Who do you think you are, poking around where you don't belong?”  
The guy with the 90’s boy band hair and a kind expression, laid his hand on her shoulder. “Tara, we’re all upset, but don't you think the least we can do is try to get the information out to as many people as we can and keep them away from that fucking place?”  
Her shoulders slumped and the fire went out of her eyes. She looked down, “You're right, Will, I just don't wanna talk about it anymore.”  
“You don't have to.” The blonde guy spoke up. “You and Annie go and listen to the band and us guys will talk to the reporters.”  
“Oh my god! You're so chivalrous, Eric. Somebody get the fucking smelling salts, I think I'm gonna swoon!” Annie dramatically put her hand to her head and collapsed back onto Tara.  
“I like that one.” Dean whispered to his brother as he elbowed him in the side.  
“Dude, jailbait!” Sam whispered back. Goddamn, who did Dean think he was, the Dazed and Confused version of Matthew McConaughey?  
The other guy who hadn't spoken yet, stood up and held out his hand to Sam.  
“Zach Lewis.” He said. Sam replied, “Sam Smith.” and shook the other man’s hand.  
Zach’s brow wrinkled for a moment. “Smith and Smith. So are y'all, like, related or….”  
Dean quickly answered, “Uh, we’re brothers. Not… that other thing.” He waved his hand in dismissal.  
Tara’s head snapped up. She looked back and forth between the brothers. “Ho-lee fuck… Sam and Dean….Winchester?” She squinted up at them from the couch.  
Dean threw his hands in the air and spun around on his heel “God motherfucking damn those goddamn fucking books!” He pointed his finger at Sam. “I'm tellin’ ya, Sammy, if I ever see that son of a bitch, Chuck, again, I'm gonna chain him up in the dungeon and I'm not gonna let him go until he tells me his whole life story. And then I'm gonna write a book about it. Or, no, I'm gonna have somebody good write a book about it. Like, like Stephen King or… or I'll have Crowley drag fucking Hemingway outa Hell and he’ll write it and then every goddamn person on Earth will know what he ate for breakfast last Tuesday!”  
Sam looked at him with a blank expression. “Are you done? Can we go back to the case now, or do you need a nap after your little hissy fit?”  
“I wouldn't mind a nap, actually.”  
“Y'all have a dungeon?” The brothers turned back to the group of teenagers, finding five pairs of wide eyes.  
Sam looked around the room, seeing that Dean's little outburst had drawn the attention of more than one of Poet’s patrons. “Maybe we should talk somewhere else.”

 

Will suggested they walk to Dogwood park, just down from the library. So, the seven of them set off down the sidewalk, past the Methodist church. The Bradford pear trees lining the sidewalk were shedding their leaves in preparation for winter, showing a riot of beautiful colors.  
They walked mostly in silence until they reached the rose garden that marked the beginning of the park, settling in one of the white gazebos that flanked the trail.  
“So,” Tara began, “you guys are really real. This is almost weirder than Crazy George being real.”  
The other kids nodded in agreement. Tara had made them all read the Supernatural books when she had gotten hooked, so they all knew what was up.  
“Well, I guess the upside to all this is that y'all know what we’re dealing with here.” Dean ran his hand over his face.  
“Vengeful spirit?” Annie asked.  
“That's what it sounds like.” Sam answered with his hands clasped between his knees.  
“How can a train be a vengeful spirit?” Will wondered.  
“Well, I did some research on the legend of Crazy George, and it looks like he was hit by a train?” Sam’s forehead wrinkled and he looked at the kids with sympathy.  
“Everybody here knows the legend,” Eric started his story, looking wary. “Crazy George was a drunk. Ran moonshine during prohibition. His still was up on Buck Mountain. As these things tended to go back then, there was a little too much lead in George's set up. Tasting his wares a little too often caused him to go kinda nuts. He retreated from civilization and had a tendency to shoot at anybody who found themselves on top of his mountain. The train still went through, though. He wasn't threatened by it. They went their way and he went his. Until one day a sinkhole opened up on the other side of the bridge. It's still there. A deep fucker. George ran out on the track with his lantern. It was dark and he tried to warn them, but with that sharp curve in the track, they didn't see him in time. Mowed him right over. And then they hit the hole. My grandma told me that it was one of the worst accidents in the history of the county. Swallowed up five cars before it stopped. I don't know how many people it killed, but it was enough to shut down the line for good. Ever since then, people have been telling the story of how you can see George's lantern some nights. Warning folks of danger.” He finished the story with a haunted expression. It was one thing to hear the story, another to have experienced it first hand.  
“Do any of y'all know where George is buried?” Dean asked, always wanting to get to the root of the problem and stomp it out.  
“No, sir. I don't think there was enough of him left to bury.” Zach was wringing his hands. All the kids looked like they had seen a ghost, and Dean reckoned that really was the crux of the matter.  
Sam stood up, his impressive height towering over them all. Commanding, in its own right. “Ok. I don't want any of you going back up there. You know who we are and you know what we do. We’ll take care of it. For right now, you all need to get back to being kids. Go listen to Three Dog Night and try to salvage your day.”  
“Who’s Three Dog Night?”  
Dean didn't quite manage to quell his eye roll. Fucking kids. They all had terrible parents. 

 

The brothers walked back to their shiny black car, which Dean had managed to park behind the stage right next to Ronald Reagan’s mustachioed face. He was bobbing his head and singing under his breath. “Mama told me not to come. Ba da bum ba da bum. Mama told me not to come. Da pa do da pa dum. That ain't no way to have fun, so..” Dean looked up at Sam with a sideways smile. “Guess that Jason kid shoulda stuck around a little longer. Listened to the wisdom of 70’s rock.” He chuckled at his own joke.  
Sam looked at his brother in disbelief. “You have a sick sense of humor, you know that? And you're terrible at telling jokes. That was not funny.”  
Dean glowered. “It was a little funny.”  
The hinges on the doors of their old car squeaked open and the brothers slid inside in tandem. The seats were warm from the afternoon sun. As Dean maneuvered his beloved land yacht out onto the open road, he pressed down on the gas pedal and her engine let out a throaty growl. He thought the sound perfectly complemented the music that could still be heard, thanks to the powerful speakers on stage.  
As they headed off down Jefferson Avenue towards the Thunderbird Motel, Dean asked, “So, what happened to the kid anyway? How'd he bite it?”  
“I don't really know. The newspaper article didn't describe the gory details, ya know. I guess we'll have to suit up and head over to the police station and then maybe the morgue to check out the body.” Sam was looking down at the laptop sitting on his thighs.  
“Whatcha lookin’ at now, nerd boy?” Dean asked.  
Sam rolled his eyes. Sometimes working with his brother was a real pain in the ass. “I was thinkin’ about the legend of Crazy George and I wanted to research the lore some more. There's a whole buncha versions of the story, apparently. Who knows which one is true? Somebody local even made a movie about him ten or so years ago. The movie plot was a bit different, though, had a whole bunch of crazies up on that mountain. None of them were ghosts. Seems like the general audience didn't care too much for the plot twist. Man, you should read the comments.”  
Dean looked over at Sam in the passenger seat. He was in full blown research mode, furiously following the words on the screen with his eyes, looking for all the world like a cat with a bird in its sights. It made Dean kinda sad to see his little brother being so studious. Wished he coulda finished school and become some hot shot lawyer like he had wanted, instead of running around the country playing Van Helsing with his older brother. Sometimes he really wondered who had screwed Sam over the worst, him or his old man.  
“Hey, get this, there's nothing too definite on what happened to the real George, but there’s a ton of stuff on Buck Mountain. Some of it's pretty creepy. Looks like more than one person has gone missing up there in the last hundred years or so. The whole area is riddled with caves. There's a spelunking club that's found a few bodies while they were exploring them.”  
“What's splunking?”  
“No, its speee- lunking. And it's when you explore and map out caves.”  
Dean grunted. “There's a word for that? Huh. Learn something new everyday, Sammy.” 

 

The Winchesters grabbed their fed suits out of the trunk of the Impala and took them inside their motel room to change. Dean flipped open his new fake FBI badge. “Alright Sammy, who are we today? Hmmm… looks like Nelson and Jennings.”  
“Dean, you know what names they are, you chose them when we stopped at that Kinkos in Chattanooga.” Sam took his suit into the bathroom, which was considerably larger than the places they usually stayed, and shut the door behind him.  
“Oh yeah. Forgot about that. You ever worry about all the head trauma we get doin’ this job?” He shouted through the door.  
“Only yours!” Sam hollered back. 

 

The drive from the motel to the police station was a short one, as most drives in small towns seem to be. The station was humble, tucked into the bottom of a grassy hillside, completely dwarfed by the massive community theatre next door. “Town seems kinda artsy to be so small and rural.” Sam mused as they walked down the steps to the front door of the station.  
Inside, to the right, was a sliding glass window and a bored looking older woman with huge glasses was sitting at a large desk that took up almost the whole room on the other side. She looked up when she heard the bell chime over the door. “Hello, I'm Miss Dolly,” she greeted them, “how can I help you’ns today?”  
Dean put on his most charming smile and leaned against the counter in front of the window, pulling his badge out of the inside pocket of his suit jacket, “I'm Agent Jennings. This is my partner, Agent Nelson. We're here about the boy who got killed on Halloween.”  
“Oh my stars! I've never met a real FBI agent before! Although I did like that show...what was the one? You know, the one about the FBI and the aliens?” She had walked around through the door and was now standing in the foyer with them, her light blue floral print dress was almost the same color as her hair.  
Sam raised an eyebrow, “Um, are you talking about the X-Files?”  
“Yes! Yes! That's the one. You know, I always wished that the two of them had gotten together in the end….” she stared off wistfully.  
Dean cleared his throat, “So, about the dead kid…”  
Sam elbowed him in the ribs. “What he means is, can we speak to the police chief? Is he available?”  
“Oh, hon,” she said, resting her hand on Sam’s forearm, “You know I’m not really a police officer, right?”  
“Would have never guessed.” Dean mumbled under his breath. Sam shot him a look.  
Miss Dolly just went right on, not noticing their exchange. “My Roy is the police chief now. Woulda never dreamed that seein’ as how much trouble he used to get hisself into when he was just knee high to a grasshopper…..”  
Dean looked over her head, giving Sam a pointed look as she rambled on. Sam just shrugged one shoulder, as Miss Dolly had a vise grip on his other arm. They all turned around when they heard the bell over the door again. In walked a tallish middle aged man with a rounded gut, dark hair, and a jolly expression. On his black t shirt was a three dimensional scarecrow, complete with real straw hair that had been hot glued on, and above that, in red, were the letters D.A.R.E. He looked like he had been to the face painting booth, too, because there was a bright orange Nemo on one cheek and Dory adorned the other.  
Miss Dolly exclaimed, “Oh, there's my Roy now!” She looked at him like he had hung the moon.  
“Well who's this now, Mama? You sure have found you some important lookin fellas. I hope you haven't been tellin ‘em all about my formative years.” He winked at her, a big smile on his face.  
She smacked at his chest, “These two boys are from the FBI, Roy. They're here to talk to ya about… what was you’ns here for again?” She pushed her large, clear plastic framed glasses up her nose with one finger.  
Roy laughed fondly and guided her to the door with his hand at the small of her back. “You go on back to the festival, Mama. They still got some a that good roasted corn on the cob you like so much.”  
“And I'd eat it too… if I still had any of ma own teeth.” She said as the door closed behind her.  
Roy chuckled and shook both of the brother's hands. “Y'all come on back to my office and tell me what yer here about. I gotta get this damn face paint off, it's startin to itch.”  
Sam turned to Dean and raised his eyebrow. “Never gonna apologize for lovin that fish, Sammy.”

 

Police Chief Roy Crawford was beside himself about Jason’s death. “I just ain't never seen nothing like it, I'm tellin you boys, somethin’ about this case is just outa sorts.”  
“Can you tell us anything about the crime scene, sir? How the body was found?” Sam asked, notebook in hand.  
“Well, to be honest, I guess we woulda never found em if ol’ Gus's best treein’ bitch hadn't gone missin’ on this last coon hunt. Thank the Lord that she’d gone missin’ once before ‘cause Gus went and sprung for one a them fancy new trackin collars with the GPS on it. Got it down at the Tractor Supply. Poor old thing got herself stuck down in one a them sinkholes we got up on Buck Mountain. Peaches, that's the dog’s name, musta been down there with the body for at least twenty four hours. She'd be at it pretty good. But you could still see somethin’ was wrong. Bad wrong. Nearest I could tell, looked like he'd been field dressed. Like a nice buck. All the meaty parts sliced right off. Now I ain't no coroner, but I've killed me a few critters in my time. I know whatcha take and whatcha leave for the scavengers. Boy had all ten fingers and toes perfectly intact, exceptin’ what Peaches used. Poor kid had nary a muscle left, I tell ya. Looked like they'd been sliced off clean, with a sharp knife. Gave me the heebie jeebies, I'm not too much of a man to admit.”  
“I like him. He says heebie jeebies.” Dean grinned.  
Sam ignored his brother and continued asking the police chief questions that were actually pertinent to their case, “Chief Crawford, have you ever seen anything like this before in the area?”  
“Call me Roy, son. Everybody does.” He waved a dismissive hand at Sam and pulled a bottle of Jack black out of the bottom drawer of his desk. “I need me some good ol’ Tennessee whiskey if we’re gonna go down that road.” He pulled three low balls out of a cabinet on the wall. “Neat ok with you fellas?”  
“Sounds good to me.” Dean gave Sam a cocky nod of the head, as if to say, ‘See, I was right, he's cool.’  
Sam cleared his throat, “Yeah, that's great. So you're saying you have seen this before?”  
“Son, you gotta understand, there’s a lot more than just men up in those hills. Red indians wuz here long before us country folk came along. There's things up there we may never understand.” He poured three fingers into each glass and passed them around, finally raising his own and taking a swig. “Now, you big city boys might judge us to be ‘hillbillies’ and ‘red necks’ an I reckon some of us are. But we came from the stock that claimed this land. Justified or not. Do you’uns know what the word, Tennessee, means in Cherokee?”  
They looked at each other and shared a glance, then looked back at Roy and shook their heads simultaneously.  
“I thought not. Tennessee means ‘the land of flowing waters.’ Water ‘as always been a sacred thing to the Cherokee. I s’pose it ‘as to all human bein’s, really. Thing is, we white men think we've tamed the water. Brought it to heel. Built dams and turbines and figured how to make it work for us. But it still overflows our river banks and takes a few lives ever’ now and again. The spirits are angry, boys. And sometimes they figure out howda creep outa their dark places and take what's theirs. You know what makes caves and sinkholes and the like? Water, that’s what. The untamed black water that runs under them hills. Buck Mountain just happens to be one a the places it flows through an’ it brings some mighty bad juju with it. That's how I see it, anyways.”

 

The Winchesters left the police station more confused than when they went in. “What the fuck was all that water talk and evil spirit shit, Sammy? You think he's possessed? Maybe we should go back and throw some holy water on his ass, see how he likes that.”  
“Ugh. No, Dean. You are not dousing the police Chief with holy water. He may have a point, anyway. This whole area is rife with legends and lore. There were the Native Americans, who had a fascinating relationship with the supernatural. And the settlers here were from all over Europe. They brought their own set of beliefs and fairy tales. What if there's some sort of supernatural warfare going on and the people who go up on the mountain get sucked into it?”  
Dean was enjoying the slight buzz that he had gotten from the six fingers worth of Jack that Roy had shared with him. The police Chief was pretty ok in his book, scarecrow shirt notwithstanding. He didn't really think Roy was possessed, he was just enjoying fucking with Sam a bit. It had been a while since they had really let loose and taken in the sights. The sun was starting to set and Dean was in the mood to vent some of his frustrations.  
“Heya, Sammy, whaddya say we go out on the town, see what Hick-ville has to offer in the way of late night entertainment?”  
Sam, who hadn't drank more than a third of his first glass of the renowned Tennessee whisky, scoffed at his brother. “Dude. We're on a case. And we have a lead. We need to do some research. Find out what we’re dealing with here.”  
“What lead? Some old hillbilly rambled on about water and caves or some shit. Sam, five kids saw a ghost kill their friend. We just gotta figure out what part of crazy bones to burn. Tomorrow. In the daylight. Right now there's a party going on at the top of that hill there.” He pointed towards the Fun Fest. “Other people are enjoying the fun time that we could be having!”  
“Good lord.” Sam ran his fingers through his longish hair. “Go fucking party with the natives, then. I'll do the research. As usual.” He held out his hand for the keys to the Impala.  
“You are so not takin’ my Baby.” Dean scowled. “If you wanna be a wet blanket, then so be it, but you are not dragging her into this.” He pocketed the keys. “Call a goddamn Uber or something. Nobody puts Baby in a corner.”  
Sam's eyes rolled so far into the back of his head, Dean thought they might never be seen again. “How are you the older brother?” He said, walking away. “Quoting fucking chick flicks.”  
“Dude,” Dean called after him, “you know Swayze always gets a pass!”

 

Sam went back to the Thunderbird Motel. Luckily there was an awesome Mexican restaurant attached to it, El Tapatio. He got an order of the chile rellenos and some chicken enchiladas to go. He snickered to himself as he tucked in. Dean was so missing out.  
Opening his laptop, he was careful not to get the enchilada sauce on the keys. For background noise, he had turned on the tv. An old episode of Jackass was on. He glanced up at it, briefly, before setting into his research. Dean could have definitely been a Johnny Knoxville or a Steve-O in another life. Sam could picture him doing all the stupid stunts those boys did. He laughed to himself, imagining Dean with a big tattoo on his back. A self portrait, huge smile on his face, giving the thumbs up, and making a name for himself based solely on doing stupid, dangerous shit. Sam wished that Dean had experienced a carefree life like that. No yellow eyed demons to take his mother away too soon. No father bent on vengeance. No little brothers to have to have been the mother and father of. The truth was, Sam didn't envy the fun that Dean might be having during the death throes of Cookeville’s fall festival. But he sorta felt obligated to be the responsible one after all the years that his older brother had looked after him. Suddenly he realized that Dean was out there somewhere, possibly quite intoxicated, with no one to watch his back. And he felt incredibly guilty. After everything that his brother had given him, had given up for him, Sam wasn't going to leave him on his own. Even if there was a case to work. He left the room and strolled, nonchalantly, through the parking lot of the motel, the huge neon Phoenix sign outside, emblem of the motel, was two stories tall and lit up in bright neon red, green, yellow, and blue; casting unique shadows over the cars and trucks parked underneath its gaze. Sam stumbled across an old 70’s model Dodge Ram pick up truck. The kind that still had the tiny sculpture of a Big Horn sheep attached to its hood. He opened the driver’s side door; god bless the trusting citizens of Putnam County, the keys were draped over the center console. He sped out of the parking lot, headed back towards downtown. There was an uneasy feeling creeping into his chest. Dean needed him. 

 

Dean was on the brightly lit patio of the one bar and grill on the square of the somewhat conservative town. He did not yet know that he would, indeed, be needing his brother’s assistance. Sooner rather than later.

 

In typical Dean fashion, he had been there about fifteen minutes (long enough to scope out the place and drink most of his first whisky) when he caught a stranger’s eye. She was cute. Not his usual busty blonde, but she had an earthy look to her. With a small nose, large hazel eyes, and light brown, somewhat frizzy, but not unkempt hair, she looked the part of the typical East Tennessee girl. Hopping down from her bar stool, and adjusting her t shirt, which was emblazoned with the word Ocoee, she made her way over to where he sat.  
“Hey! Haven't seen you around here before. Did ya come for the fun fest?” She wiped her hands on her faded jeans, removing the condensation from her tall boy, before offering it to him.  
Dean took it, looking her up and down. She looked like a farm girl, not some chick hanging around a bar, trying to get picked up. He didn't feel the need to play the part of Casanova with her. The girl’s open smile put him at ease. He took her offered hand.  
“Nah, just a happy coincidence. My brother and I are here working on a story. I'm Dean.”  
“Oh, really? So y'all are like journalists or somethin’?” She took a long drink of her beer.  
Dean watched her guzzle it, kinda impressed, if he were to be honest about it. “Yeah, something like that. You a local?”  
“Yup. Born and bred. The name’s Lee. Grew up near Buck Mountain out on Dry Valley road. My family owns a farm out there. We were the ones sellin’ the roast corn at the fest. You try it?”  
“Uh, vegetables are more my brother's thing, but if I had known you were there, I might have risked it.” He winked at her and she blushed, the freckles standing out against her sun tanned skin. “So, you probably know a lot about the area, huh?” Dean kinda felt bad about leaving Sam to do all the heavy lifting on the case, so why not mix a little business in with the pleasure?  
“Oh, yeah, my Granny tells all kinds a stories about the past and the history of the county. I could sit there with ‘er all day, just shellin’ peas and listenin’. Old folks tell the best stories, ya know,” She elbowed him and winked, as if she was sharing a great secret. “We gotta responsibility to know the stories of our past. Gotta pass ‘em down to the next generation so they don't get lost.”  
“You know anything about Buck Mountain? I heard there's some pretty weird stuff that goes on up there.” Dean figured he had just hit the information jackpot. She was right, old people did know all the stories, and the older they were, the closer to the truth they were. See, Sam, I'm doin’ research too. My way is just a heckuva lot more fun.  
“Nah. I mean, yeah, I know about it, I ride my horses up there all the time, but there's nothin’ too weird. It can be dangerous in the way that wild places sometimes are. Sinkholes and copperheads and coydogs and whatnot. One a the most peaceful places in the world is right up there on the top a that mountain, though. Found it when I was just a kid. Quiet little cemetery. Only three graves. The headstones are worn down to about nothin’, who knows how old they are. But you can see the whole valley from up there.” She paused, seemingly lost in thought. “Hey, tell ya what, Dean,  
you buy us a bottle of somethin’ stronger than this an I’ll take ya up there, tell ya all the stories. We can look at the stars.” She looked at him, batting her eyes jokingly. 

Dean wasn't sure if it was the alcohol, the cute girl, or the fact that he had a fucking arsenal in his trunk, but he agreed to go with her, buying a bottle of Jack on the way out of the bar.  
Lee turned to him, “I hope you have a car, Dean, I rode into town with my folks and taxis don't go where we're goin’.”  
“Oh, sweetheart, I never go anywhere without my baby.” He gestured to the black behemoth two parking spots down.  
“Wow! She’s yours? Beautiful. Car like this would win the car show over at the fairgrounds, hands down. My brother's fixin’ up an old Pontiac Firebird, hopes he'll win this year.”  
“You gotta brother too?” Dean opened the passenger side door for her, handing her the bottle when she had gotten comfortable.  
When he had settled behind the wheel, she answered him, “several, actually, I come from a big family. We all still live on the farm and work it.”

 

When the Impala’s big engine had roared to life, Lee pointed Dean in the right direction. They headed out of town, way past where the streetlights ended and the woods began.  
“You'd better slow down there, Earnheart, or we're gonna miss our turn. There! Turn right there!”  
The old Chevy had a big engine, but Dean made sure she had good brakes, too. They turned onto the two lane road and headed east, going up and up and up.  
“That's it, Dean, now you just keep it between the mayonnaise and the mustard till there ain't no more mayonnaise and mustard.”  
He looked at her quizzically.  
“You know, the yellow and white lines.”  
Dean returned his eyes to the road. “Well, that's a unique sayin’.”  
Lee laughed and said, “Yeah, we got a lot of unique sayin’s around here. My personal favorite is ‘hot as two rats fuckin’ in a wool sock’.”  
Dean snorted and jerked the steering wheel.  
“Hey! Hey! Mayonnaise and mustard, dude!”

The road twisted and turned sharply through the woods. True to Lee’s prediction, the two lane road soon gave way to a one lane chip and tar disaster. The Impala’s seventeen foot length was almost too long to take a few of the sharp turns that slowly rose up the mountain.  
“Does the road get any worse than this?” Dean asked, worrying for the safety of his car.  
“Oh, yeah. So much worse. We’ll have to leave the car at the bridge and hike up. Gets too steep after that.”  
“Bridge?” He didn't really want to leave the Impala alone in the woods up here. What if a tree fell on her or something. A bear could pull the bumper right off! He'd seen a video of that somewhere, he thought. A fucking coyote could piss on a tire. Anything could happen!  
“Yeah, locals call it Crazy George's Bridge. Say it's haunted by a guy who used to live up here and got hit by a train. Never seen him, myself.” She shrugged, obviously not worried in the least. “Place like this, seen so much bloodshed, bound to have a few ghosts.”  
“Wait….this is Crazy George's Bridge?” Dean asked, finally getting with the program, as they stopped just short of the graffiti covered concrete.  
“Yeah, just last week a kid got killed out here. Fell in a sinkhole. Dog gnawed on him or somethin’.”  
“I know. That's the story I'm here covering.” He got out of the car and went to the trunk. Lee opened her door and sat, waiting for him. “I gotta blanket and a flashlight in here somewhere. Just let me grab it.” He opened the trunk and discreetly lifted the false bottom. It was dark and he doubted she could see much. Grabbing a bag, he threw in a container of salt and a small bottle of lighter fluid. His zippo was already in the front pocket of his jeans. Dean was about to toss the blanket in when he spotted his trusty machete, glinting in the moonlight. Why not, he thought, better safe than sorry. Don't know nothin that can't be killed if ya whack its head off. Well...there was that one thing, but what are the odds?  
Feeling sufficiently prepared and proud of his perceived stealth, he closed the trunk and walked back down the car’s length to where Lee was sitting in the passenger seat. She was sideways, boot clad feet in the gravel, cradling the bottle of Jack between her knees, and gazing down the railroad track.  
She looked up at him. “C’mon. We gotta lot of mountain left to hike. Night's not gettin any younger.”  
Lee traded him the bottle for the flashlight, which he stowed in his bag. She stood up, closed the car door, and took his hand, pulling him across the bridge. He glanced back and thought that maybe he saw the smallest pin prick of light, coming around the curve in the tracks. What he didn't see were the three shadows that stepped out of the woods in front of him. 

 

Sam parked his ill-begotten Dodge behind the hardware store, hopeful that no one was looking for it yet. He kinda felt bad about just taking the truck. Everybody in Cookeville seemed so nice, he probably could have just walked into the Mexican restaurant and asked somebody for a ride to the square. Oh, well. Old habits die hard, he reckoned. What's one more felony anyways? A prison cell had never managed to hold a Winchester for very long.  
Looking around the almost deserted, but still festive square, he didn't see Dean’s car. Didn't mean much, though, most of the streets were still blocked off until the event’s stage had been dismantled. There were only two storefronts still open at this hour: Poet’s, and a bar and grill called Char on the other side of the Lamp and Lighthouse. It wasn't hard to determine which of the two Dean would have chosen.  
Sam made his way over to Char. A cold wind had picked up and most of the bar’s patrons had moved inside and off of the patio. The bartender at the outside bar was wiping it down and getting ready to close up for the night. Sam walked up to him.  
“Sorry, buddy, we’re closing up out here for the night. Gettin’ too cold. The party moved inside. Go and get yourself warmed up.”  
“Oh, uh, actually I'm just looking for my brother. Yay high.” He held his hand up to his ear. “Flannel shirt, canvas jacket, drives a big black Chevy. Probably was drinking whisky of some sort. Maybe covered in women?”  
“Wow. You know you're brother pretty well, huh? Got the whisky part right, but there was only one woman. Lee Blackwater. I've had a crush on her since eighth grade, man. She had the hots for your brother the second he walked through the door.” The bartender looked Sam up and down. “Guess yalls family has a tall gene or something.”  
Sam’s forehead wrinkled, “Yeah…. look, do you know where she lives? He didn't bring her back to our motel room, so maybe they went to her place? I really need to find him.”  
“Well, you're in luck ‘cause I overheard her invitin' him to go with her up to the top of Buck Mountain. Some old cemetery or somethin. Sometimes Lee picks up outta towners in here and takes ‘em up there to ‘look at the stars’. Never had much of a taste for the local boys.” He sighed and went back to wiping the bar. “All those brothers of hers probably woulda run me off anyways.”

 

Lee looked down where Dean was lying on the dry brown leaves. His pretty green eyes were closed now. She hoped, for his sake, they stayed that way until it was over. Not being sure how hard her brother had hit him, she poked him with a stick to see if he'd react. Hm, nothing. It was a cryin shame, really. He'd seemed sweet and he was certainly easy on the eyes. Lee kinda wished she'd gotten to take a crack at that before the boys had got to him. Oh, well, he was gonna be a good sacrifice for the Blackwater gods. And she had dibs on that nice ass car. 

 

The old Dodge Ram was still waiting for Sam when he left the bar. He hopped into the cab and sat there for a second. Surely Dean was not that much of a fucking moron. He knew there was something out there in those woods killing people. Of course, he thought it was a ghost. Dean wouldn't really be afraid of a simple salt-and-burn. Not with all the shit they’d seen. He knew that the only thing Dean had ever really been scared of was failing his brother.  
‘Take care of Sammy, Dean. I'll be back in a few days.’ Was probably the most frequently used sentence in his father’s vocabulary. Dean had the biggest goddamn martyr complex in the universe thanks to the way he was raised. Or, more accurately, not raised. He had run into a fight alone more than once, trying to keep his kid brother safe.  
Sam knew he needed to find Dean and get him off of that mountain. He had a hunch that this thing was a whole lot bigger and more complicated than they had thought. Of course, he still didn't have any clue what he'd be walking into if he did go up there. His almost-a-lawyer’s mind was working in overdrive. If he went up there, half cocked like Dean, not armed with his usual knowledge of what they were dealing with and how to kill it, he might not make it back down. But if he didn't go, Dean might not make it back down. You gotta go, it's your brother, he told himself. Sam's gut won out over his head, for once. He scrubbed his hands over his face and pushed his hair back. The stolen truck eased out of the parking spot and headed east. 

 

Dean woke up on top of Buck Mountain. His first thought was, ‘Wow! Lee was right, you really can see the whole valley from up here.’ His second thought was, ‘Uh oh, I think I'm in some real deep shit.’  
As he took in his surroundings, lit by the fires burning in four large stone bowls, he realized that he was immobile and half naked. That was a real problem when you were surrounded by a bunch of evil looking crap he didn't have a name for. There was what he could only suppose was an altar, of sorts, carved into the large limestone outcropping to his right. A deep groove about six inches wide was etched into it from back to front leading to a trough. The trough, carved out of the same limestone, flared out into a perfect circle, surrounding him on all sides, it was about ten feet in diameter. The evil looking crap was some sort of black liquid that flowed from a hole in the back of the altar and poured down into the circular trough. He seemed to be tied to a large black obelisk standing in the center of the ring. Except he didn't feel any ropes or chains. Ropes and chains he could deal with. This felt more like he was a magnet stuck to a refrigerator. Or a mouse in a glue trap. Where his skin met the smooth stone, it felt sticky. Almost as if it was secreting some sort of adhesive. The only thing he could move was his head.  
“Oh no. I was hopin’ you were out for good, Dean. This would be so much easier for you if you were out cold. They don't really care much if you scream or not.” Lee walked out of the trees carrying his bag. Stopping a couple feet outside the ring, she sat down and opened it, taking out the bottle of Jack and setting it on the dead grass beside her. If looks could kill, she'd be six feet under with the way Dean was glaring at her.  
“Hey, thanks for bringin' this blanket. It is pretty cold out here.” As she mentioned the cold, Dean realized that he was comfortably warm. And the ground inside the ring was covered in lush green grass. Nothing like the brown November grass Lee was sitting on.  
He looked up in confusion as Lee pulled the blanket out of his duffle and put it around her shoulders. The machete fell out of it and clanked on the ground.  
“Huh. What were you gonna do with this, Dean? Clear some underbrush?”  
“Well, I was gonna save your life with it if we got into any trouble up here, but now I think I'm gonna whack your head off with it,” he growled at her, nostrils flaring.  
“No you're not. We’re not even really in the same dimension anymore.” She shrugged her shoulders and opened the bottle of liquor, taking a long drink.  
“What the fuck are you talking about?”  
“I did promise you I'd tell you a story if you bought me this bottle, didn't I? I s’pose it’d be rude to refuse a dyin’ man his last wish.”

 

It wasn't hard for Sam to figure out that Buck Mountain road was the way up to Buck Mountain. He liked that practical way of doing things. Unfortunately, his Dodge didn't have the brightest headlights in the world and it was difficult to see the narrow road that he was traveling. Made the going slow.  
That's why he almost ran right into the rear end of the Impala, sitting abandoned in the middle of the road. The truck slid to a halt only a few feet from it.  
Sam sighed in relief. It was bad enough that he may be about to walk up on his brother and some chick, doing god knows what at the top of the hill, he'd hate to have to tell him that he totaled the car too.  
He got out of the truck and walked to the rear of the Impala. Opening the unlocked trunk, Sam thought that maybe Dean relied a little too much on that devil’s trap drawn on the underside of the panel. He made a mental note to mention that, if he ever saw his brother again.  
Standing there, staring into the hidden arsenal compartment, he tried to figure out what this thing could be and what weapons he should take to kill it.  
“Ain't nothing in there gonna save your brother, son.”  
Sam jerked around so fast he hit his head on the shotgun that was holding the trunk open. To his right, by the rear panel, stood a man holding an old fashioned lantern. His well-worn button down shirt and pants, in shades of brown, were topped off by a jaunty bowler hat that sat crooked on his head. He couldn't have been older than forty, but his face looked weary.  
“Who...who are you?” Sam stammered, adrenaline coursing through his veins.  
The man smiled. “Well most folks around here think of me as Crazy George. But I'm not crazy and my name’s not George. I'm not a ghost, either, although it makes sense why they'd think it.”  
“So...if it's not rude of me to ask… uh, what are you.”  
“Well, I'm a Sentinel, boy.”

 

Lee grabbed the flashlight and held it under her chin, lighting up her face like a kid around a campfire telling spooky stories.  
“C’mon! Is that really necessary?”  
“What, Dean? I'm tryin to set the mood.”  
Dean pointedly looked around at all the creepy shit and gestured with his head. “I think the mood is already set.”  
“Alright, alright. Kill joy.” Lee drank from the bottle again and switched off the flashlight. “I'm sorry, I'm gonna get a little drunk. I hate watchin' these things, but there's gotta be a witness and the boys get a little squeamish at the sight of blood.”  
She pulled the blanket up higher around her shoulders. “So, a long time ago, before humans or animals, there were four goddesses. Water, Earth, Air, and Fire. Fire lived in the deep bedrock of Earth. She smoldered there, glowin’, churnin’, rollin’. Earth sat above her, feedin’ Fire’s embers. Fire, in turn, makin’ new Earth. Air soared above, makin’ Fire dance and blowin’ Earth through the skies. But Water, well, Water was jealous. She put out Fire’s dancin’ flames. She washed Earth away, into her depths, and she rained from the sky. Somethin’ had to be done about it, right?” She drank again. “So Earth, Fire, and Air decided to use their friendship to over power Water. Air came down through Earth’s layers to fan Fire’s flames so that she could push Earth to the surface of Water. Over time, they made enough dry Earth together that she started takin' over Water. Some of Water got trapped in Earth and they held those parts captive. Eventually, plants and animals and humans appeared on Earth and they made up new, more powerful gods. The four goddesses were forgotten and the world moved on. But the Waters held captive, deep inside the earth, didn't forget. In fact that's all they thought about. They festered. As humans became more advanced, we learnt how to dig holes and then wells. Dig enough holes and somethin’ nastys gonna come out, I guess. The ugly, twisted, black parts of Water all ended up here. Of course they would come to ‘The Land of Flowing Water’. They started to contaminate the beautiful rivers and lakes and waterfalls. The Cherokee people knew that they had to find a way to contain the Black Waters, so their medicine men went spirit walkin’. The Thunderbird came to them and showed them a way to trap the Black Waters inside of the earth again. For many generations they lay under this mountain unable to escape because of the powerful warding. Then, in the 20’s, my grandpa helped pull out the wreckage of a train that had crashed into a sinkhole down the mountain. It must have knocked somethin' loose in the warding because the Black Water came to him and told him that if he built this place and sacrificed good, strong men to them, that they could become more powerful and break out of their prison and help his family to have bountiful harvests and be successful in all that they did.” Lee shrugged. “And they do. So we do.”

 

“Excuse me, a what?”  
“A Sentinel.” Not-George said. “I was sent here to keep innocents away from the evil on the mountain.”  
“Well, excuse me for saying so, but you're not really doin’ a bang up job.” Sam was earnest. He had to know what was going on here and how to stop it.  
“I been on this job further back than your family tree goes, son. Everything was fine up until that train crash in the 20’s. The Cherokee elders were real smart men, Sam. They put up barriers to keep the evil in. Shoulda worked for eternity except for that train crash. I tried to stop it, but I couldn't. She was goin’ too fast. Busted a corner of the foundation. Not all the way broke, but enough for them to reach out. Them’s angry spirits stuck in this mountain and they want out. Only way to do that’s through blood.”  
Sam wasn't fazed. He was all business. Hunter mode activated. “Ok. So how do we stop them? How do we save my brother?”  
“At one time I could have done it myself. That's what I'm here for, after all. But the more sacrifices that’ve been made to them, the weaker I get. I've resorted to cheap parlor tricks to scare folks away. It works… most of the time. But, Sam, you're different. I know that when you were just a young’un a demon gave you the blood of hellfire. And I know some bad stuff happened because of it. But demons ain't the only thing down there livin’ under the earth. There's magic older than you or me or God hisself, for that matter. The fire ain't all bad, son. You just gotta know what side you're on and stay there. I can help you to help your brother and end this thing for good, but you're gonna have to dig deep and uncover parts of you that you've buried away.”  
Fuck. Sam always knew that demon blood shit was gonna come back around. Not-George was right, helping to start the apocalypse and, subsequently, hanging out with Lucifer in his cage were not memories that he would happily re-live, but he wasn't the same, confused, boy that he was back then. He was Sam Fucking Winchester and he knew what side of right and wrong he stood on.  
“Show me.” He puffed out his chest and stood at his full height, shoulders back. “I'm ready.” 

Not-George led the way down the sinkhole and into the tunnels below. The narrow walk way twisted and turned. Sometimes going up, sometimes down. They skirted around holes so deep Sam didn't want to think about where they ended up. The remains of animal and human alike decorated the corridors. Kinda reminded him of Hell, if he were to be honest with himself. And he had to be honest. This whole thing wouldn't work if he wasn't. The ancient fire god would know. They rounded a bend and a great cavern rose up before them. The walls were spectacularly decorated with paintings depicting fortuitous hunts, the births and deaths of celebrated hunters and leaders, and finally a huge bird. The painting was at least fifty feet tall, a hundred wide, done in black and red and blue and green, it reminded him of the neon monstrosity adorning their motel. But, as we all know, some artwork has power.  
A mysterious primal force was guiding Sam, as he walked towards the great Thunderbird. He took out his knife and sliced open the palm of his hand. He knew that he was drawing on blood magic here, no need to deny it. Lifting his palm, blood freely flowing, he placed it on the image of the bird.  
“Help me save my brother and I will help you in return. You know who I am and what I do and you know that there is power in my words.” Sam backed away from the wall of the cave, leaving a smear of blood in his wake.  
The walls started to shake and the floor seemed unsteady, but Sam stood his ground. Part of the expansive painting started to crumble and fell away in chunks to the ground, revealing a glowing stone the size of a large apple.  
“Sammy,” Not-George breathed out, in wonder, “I knew you were the one. The Thunderbird has found you worthy of the last piece of the goddess, Fire.” He looked at Sam in awe.  
“Don't call me Sammy. Only one person has that right and it's not you. Now let's go save my brother.”

 

Lee had finished her tale. “I'm sorry, Dean, but this is the end of our story.” She took one last swig and stood up. “It's not gonna be pretty and it's not gonna be painless, but, I promise, it's gonna be for a good cause.”  
“What's that, sweetheart? Better than average corn to sell at next year’s Hick-fest? Cows that aren't quite as snotty as most cows? Scarecrows that scare off a few more crows than the Jones’s? ‘Cause I think you don't know what you've gotten yourself into here. Trust me, I know about deals. And gods aren't that fucking far off from demons. Maybe you have a decent life. A pleasant one, even, ya know, aside from having to watch a few dozen guys be torn apart in front of you. What happens next? You think you're going to the good place after this? You think Heaven is gonna welcome you with open arms? I got news for you, darlin’, this life is short. You got eternity looming over you. And so does your whole family. I know what's happenin’ to your grandfather right now, and I absolutely garun-damn-tee you that this is one thing he regrets passin’ down the family tree.”  
She tossed what was left of the liquor bottle into the nearest fire pit, making it explode in a riotous shower of flames. “Oh, yeah? What do you know? What would my life be if it wasn't for this? Some unwed mother begging for change on the street corner, trying to feed her illegitimate kids? Dying of some incurable disease? An innocent, rotting in some prison cell for life? I need this. My family needs this!” She screamed at him.  
“You think those things are the worst that can happen to a person? You are so fucking wrong. If eternal damnation don't do it for ya, I ain't got nothin’ else. Go on, then, call these fuckers up here. Let's see how they fare against a Winchester.”  
“I don't call them, Dean, they come when they want.”  
Just then the Black Water started bubbling and the flames grew three fold. The nasty shit started gushing from the hole in the rock and pouring into the troughs. Three dark figures rose from the liquid and began chanting in a tongue Dean didn't know. They moved in a way that wasn't human, circling within the patch of green grass.  
The first cut took him right back to Hell, on Alistair’s rack. It was pure agony as they sliced at him, chanting in their foreign tongue all the while.  
Searching for anything to draw his attention away from the pain, Dean looked at the beautiful valley stretching out below. Once again he thought he could see the barest hint of light coming over the crest of the hill.  
He couldn't keep it in anymore. They were carving at him with their sharp claws and he finally closed his eyes and bellowed out his anguish. Then there was silence.  
The torment suddenly stopped and a bright light lit up the insides of his eyelids red. The chanting ended and he could hear the inhuman sounds that the Black Water was making.  
Dean opened his eyes and he saw Sammy cresting the hill. He was holding a blazing object in his hands, walking confidently towards the dark circle. He paused and looked at his brother. Sam’s eyes were glowing brightly, with all the colors that Dean had ever seen.  
“It's ok, brother, I got this.”  
Suddenly great golden wings appeared at Sam’s back and he rose off of the ground.  
A booming voice sounded all around them, not coming from any particular source.  
“Your time is done here, Water. As is ours. This is the world of humans now and you shall never interfere again.”  
The sky flashed bright and the flames danced in the glowing stone. The Black Water rose up from the trough and dissipated into the sky. 

 

Sam collapsed to the ground, his wings gone.  
“Holy shit, Sammy. What was that?” Dean asked, bleeding profusely. He had been released from the magic that held him and he slumped down the obelisk.  
Lee, who had witnessed the festivities, ran to Dean and put a hand on his wounded shoulder. Actually, it felt like everything was wounded.  
“Are you ok?” She asked.  
Through gritted teeth, he replied, “If you don't go back to your god forsaken farm right the fuck now, I will find that machete and I will cut your goddamn head off.”  
She blanched, believing him one hundred percent, and scurried off down the trail.  
“And if you so much as touch my car, I will murder your entire fucking family!” He yelled after her. 

 

Sam was still crouched on the ground, breathing heavily, when Not-George appeared at his side. He put a hand on Sam's back.  
“You're an honorable fella, Sam Winchester. It's within my power to help you one last time. Ask what you will of me.”  
Sam looked at Dean, still bleeding at the foot of the black obelisk. “Just help my brother.”  
Not-George smiled and nodded his head. He stepped over the empty trough and walked to Dean. Laying a hand on his head, he healed him of his wounds.  
Dean gasped, relieved of his pain, and looked up. “You're Crazy George?”  
“Not anymore.” 

 

Sam and Dean sat together at the top of Buck Mountain and watched the sun rise over the farmland below. Dean's rescued blanket was draped around his shoulders, his breath visible on the cool morning air. They sat in companionable silence for a while, appreciating the view. The last piece of a goddess sat on the ground between them.  
“Thanks for the rescue, brother, I really stepped in it this time.”  
“Don't mention it. Anything for the man who raised me.” Sam didn't look at Dean.  
It was silent again for a while.  
“I'm proud of you, Sammy.”  
This time he looked over at Dean. He didn't miss his brother swipe at his eyes with the back of his hand.  
“Jerk.” Sam said.  
“Bitch.” Dean replied. They met each other's eyes, then, and they both smiled. 

 

After the sun had risen in the sky, the Winchester brothers started back down the hill.  
“What do you think’s gonna happen to the Blackwaters?” Sam asked.  
“Nothin’ good.” Dean answered.  
“You think there's anything we need to take care of there?”  
“Nah, Sammy. Those folks don't know what's coming to them, but it's a helluva lot worse than anything we could do. They can't do any more harm. That black shit is gone for good, thanks to you.” Dean clapped him on the back.  
They had made it back to the bridge and the vehicles. Dean walked to the Impala and deposited the blanket inside, rummaging around for a new shirt.  
Sam stopped on the graffiti covered bridge and looked out over the tracks, saying a silent thanks. For an instant, there was a winking light just around the bend and then it went out forever. He smiled to himself, nodding, and walked over to where his brother was. 

 

They drove back to the motel, Dean in his beloved car and Sam in his borrowed truck. They parked and Dean went inside to grab their bags.  
Before he left the trusty Dodge for good, Sam searched the cab for a pen and paper. Once found, he scribbled a hasty note to the owner and left it on the console next to the keys. ‘Sorry about the inconvenience. You helped save a life last night. Thanks. -S.W.


End file.
